


Tumblr shorts - Winterfalcon

by galwednesday



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky loves telling embarrassing stories about Steve, Cabin Fic, Domestic Fluff, Hardware stores, Holidays, M/M, Sam accepts them as currency, Socks, Soft Domestic WinterFalcon, except Steve, it works out well for everyone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-23 22:53:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9685457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galwednesday/pseuds/galwednesday
Summary: Scenes and stories from my Tumblr that are too short to justify having their own AO3 listing featuring Sam and Bucky, the "I hate you" of OTPs.Chapter 1, Oh Darn: Soft domestic Winterfalcon, in which Sam investigates the case of his mysteriously self-mending socks.Chapter 2 continues the soft domestic Winteralcon, now with 100% more Christmas fluff.





	1. Oh, Darn

**Author's Note:**

> In response to this Tumblr prompt from chibisquirt: _Could I get something with SamBucky and socks, by any chance?_
> 
> This came out soft and domestic TO THE MAX, and is followed by a hardware store part 2, because this is such a soothing 'verse to spend time in that I wanted to come back to it.

It takes Sam a week or so to notice. He doesn’t do his own laundry anymore, is the thing; it’s one of the chores that Bucky has silently but unequivocally taken over since he and Steve moved into Sam’s house, along with the cooking, gardening, and general cleaning. 

(Apparently you’re supposed to wash your windows; who knew? Bucky had given Sam a _look_ when he had asked why the hell the inside of a window would be dirty, and then he’d shown Sam the black grime he’d collected on the damp newspaper he was using to wipe down the window, and Sam had said “All right, man, wash whatever you want if it makes you happy,” and backed out of the room. So now his house smells faintly like floor wax and fresh lemon oil 24/7, and all his windows sparkle.)

So Sam doesn’t notice at first that the holes in his socks have all spontaneously closed up. It isn’t until he’s pulling off his favorite pair of socks (navy wool with tiny penguins embroidered in white, last year’s Christmas gift from his sister) at the end of a long day that he notices the new stitching, neat and almost invisible, patching the hole in the toe that’s been idly bothering Sam for a few months now.

Sam pigeonholes Bucky in the kitchen, where Bucky is mixing up a batch of sourdough starter to leave in the fridge overnight. (Bucky takes store-bought bread as a personal offense. “It’s just yeast, flour, salt, and water, Wilson, I can mix it in my sleep. Get that spongey bagged shit out of my kitchen.”)

Sam leans on the fridge and holds up the socks with a dramatic flourish, like he’s presenting evidence. “Are you darning my socks?”

Bucky looks down and scratches the scruff on his chin. Is he--

“Are you _blushing_?”

“No.”

“You totally are.” He totally is. 

Bucky buries his face in his hands. His moan of “Steve _swears_  I used to be good at this,” comes out a little muffled, but Sam gets the gist.

“Is this 1940s flirting?”

“Maybe.” Bucky’s fingers shift just enough to let one eye peek out at Sam. “Is it working?”

“Come over here and find out.”

Two months later when Bucky officially moves his stuff into Sam’s bedroom, the first thing he does is re-organize the sock drawer.

  


* * *

  


“Hey, what’d I say?” Sam swung the shopping basket behind his back when Bucky tried to slip in a bottle of something dark. “No more shopping sprees at the hardware store. This time, for once, we stick to the list.”

Undeterred, Bucky flipped the bottle over Sam’s shoulder in a perfect arc to send it into the basket. “We need it.”

“No, we do not need–” Sam snuck a look down into the basket. “Yet another bottle of polish, what the hell, man? We already have like five bottles.”

“Three,” Bucky corrected. He turned a vase over to check the price tag on the bottom, then snorted and put it back. “We have wood polish, steel polish, and brass polish. That’s copper polish.”

“Is this why you came back from Goodwill last week with that giant copper pot that we also definitely don’t need?” Sam picked the bottle up and shook it accusingly. “So you’d have an excuse to indulge your polish fixation?”

“Make you a deal,” Bucky said, crowding Sam against the shelves and leaning into him a little. Sam looked up and, sure enough, they were in the store’s one security camera blindspot. Bucky really liked canoodling with Sam in public, as long as it wasn’t _public_ public. “If we get the polish, I’ll tell you about the time in ‘38 when Steve accidentally sat in our soup pot and got his bony little ass stuck.”

Sam felt his eyes go wide. “He did _not_.”

Bucky just raised his eyebrows and looked smug. The fucker always knew when he’d won.

“Fine, the polish stays.” Sam tapped the bottle against the center of Bucky’s chest and tried to look stern. “But you’re telling me that story on our way home, and I expect our new soup pot to _shine_ , you understand?”

Bucky hid his smile against Sam’s temple. “Sir, yes, sir.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Christmas-themed continuation of the soft domestic ficlets in chapter 1, still complete fluff.

Sam shoved the card directly onto Bucky’s face. “This is a betrayal.”

Bucky kicked his boots off on the doormat and stripped off his gloves. The snow had been falling slowly but steadily, and he’d spent most of the afternoon clearing neighbors’ sidewalks. He squinted at the card’s signature line and gave Sam a big shit-eating grin. “I love your Grandma.”

“‘To Bucky and Sam,’ she says. It’s not enough that you stole the show at Thanksgiving, now I’m getting second billing on my own grandmother’s Christmas card?”

“It’s not my fault she loves me best.”

San snorted and started peeling Bucky out of his enormous down coat. “Like you didn’t plan this. ‘Can I help you carry anything, Mrs. Wilson? May I have fourth helpings, Mrs. Wilson? Of course I understood your Pearl Bailey reference, Mrs. Wilson, let me tell you about the time I saw her USO show.’ You’re trying to cut everyone else out of the will, aren’t you?”

“Aw, rats, you’ve uncovered my dastardly plan.” Bucky held his left arm above the radiator, fingers spread, to quickly warm the cold metal.

Sam wrapped his arms around Bucky from behind and rested his chin on Bucky’s right shoulder, Bucky’s neck cool and soft against his cheek. “You know what my cousin said after she saw Grandma actually let you into her kitchen to help cook?”

Bucky leaned back into Sam’s loose hold. “No, what?”

“That if I didn’t put a ring on it, Grandma would beat me to it.”

Sam had been expecting that to get a laugh, but Bucky just hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe you should.”

Sam’s arms tightened. “Yeah? You think so?”

“Yeah, I do.” Bucky spun around so Sam’s arms were looped behind Bucky’s neck. He backed Sam up against the wall, his silhouette bathed with soft rainbow lights from the Christmas tree. “It’s about time you made a respectable man out of me, Wilson. My reputation’s in tatters. I can hardly show my face at the bingo hall.”

“Well, in  _that_  case.”

Bucky swallowed and rested his forehead against Sam’s. “You mean it?”

“Yeah, I mean it. Let’s do it.” Sam kissed him nice and slow and sweet, until Bucky’s back relaxed under his hands, then seized the advantage of surprise. “Dibs on Steve as my best man.”

“What,” Bucky said flatly. “No.”

“I called it, Barnes.”

“You can’t  _dibs Steve_. I have pre-existing dibs.”

“Since when?”

“Since the nineteen goddamn thirties!” Bucky hoisted Sam up by his thighs and carried him to the couch, falling back onto the cushions with Sam braced against his chest. “I have dibs, Wilson. End of discussion.”

Sam couldn’t keep the smile from spreading across his face. “He’s going to flip his shit.”

“He’s going to  _cry_. Can we tell him tomorrow?”

“Whenever you want.” Sam leaned in to kiss him again. “Merry Christmas, Bucky.”

“Merry Christmas, Sam.”


End file.
